Now that he had her undivided attention, the man seemed to deflate a little. He curled his waxed mustache around his fingertips. In the growing autumn chill, the points seemed to hold a bit better. “I… I just wanted to talk to you…”
“So talk,” Lydia insisted. “I'm listening.” What's going on with this fellow?
“Well, it's been a long, long time since I lost my wife, and…”
Oh dear. That's what I was afraid of. “Sorry, Mister, but let me cut you off right there. I'm engaged to be married, and I'm really happy about it. There's no future here, so don't say another word, please?”
“I can give you a better life than he can,” Mr. Blaylock said, his resolve visibly firming. “You don't even know who he is,” Lydia pointed out.
He shrugged. “It doesn't matter. I can provide a better life than anyone in this town… or probably most others. I have a great deal of money, and the means to make even more. My wife would never have to lift a finger, that is, unless she felt like cooking something special. All I'd ask in return is to share a bed, and provide me with a son. You look like a robust woman. I know you could manage it with no problem. Think of it, Miss Carré. It's every woman's dream.”
“I think better might be a relative term,” Lydia replied, thinking out loud, even as the pang of the knowledge that she would never bear a child for the man she loved brought a suspicious sting to her eyes. “I chose this life and I love it. I love my work. I love that I own this place and that I keep hungry people fed. I love that the man I'm marrying doesn't want me to give up the life I've built for myself. He affirms me. Sounds to me like you have some wrongheaded ideas about what 'every woman's dream'. I'm not that kind of woman. A richer life isn't necessarily a better one. I'm sorry if that disappoints you, Mr. Blaylock, but I won't lead you on. There's no future here.” Lydia took a deep breath, her face heating with embarrassment, but her resolve unwavering.
The man had grown paler. She could hear his molars grinding. “I see,” he said. “I see, well… I made my offer.”
“You did,” Lydia agreed. “I appreciate your interest. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Without waiting for a reply, she stalked quickly through the dining room into the kitchen, where she found Esther washing the dishes and Billy wiping them.
“What's for lunch today?” Billy asked.
“Chicken soup,” Lydia replied, lifting the lid on a huge pot of stock that had been simmering for hours. She grabbed a long fork from the counter and skewered two chicken carcasses. “I'll shred the meat and put it back in, along with onions, carrots and peas.”
“Yummy,” Ether said. “I love your soups, and it's the perfect day for it, with the chill in the air.”
“Save me some,” Billy begged.
“Of course,” Lydia replied. “An extra big bowl and some buttered bread, okay, honey?”
He grinned.
Life as usual, and I love it.
Chapter 9
Dylan sank into a chair. With his missive to the men of town, everyone would be on guard against a stranger with a limp, but he wasn't sure they understood the threat. Hell, I don't even understand it. What will they do next? More letters or something more active and dangerous? Who or what will they target, and when? If only Jesse had gotten a closer look, we might have a decent description at least. A throbbing behind Dylan's right eyeball made perfect sense under the circumstances.
Jesse and Rob bustled in, guns hanging from their belts, their expressions grim.
Two stout young men, Dylan thought, looking them over. Jesse, though not tall, stood proud and certain, his eyes shrewd despite the yellow hair and slender physique that made him seem ineffectual. He's the sort that can get the jump on anyone. Rob, younger, taller and more muscular, having grown up on a cattle ranch, looked like the brawn of the operation, and he was. Along with me in the lead, it's hardly enough to keep us all safe.
“Did you send the telegram?”
Jesse nodded. “The Sheriff of Pueblo promises to look into it and get back to us as soon as possible. He's going to investigate who has been sending letters to here. Maybe he can tell us something.”
“It's a start,” Dylan replied with a sigh. “I don't know how much we can do without more information, other than stay on guard. You might tell your wife, Jesse, to stay close to other people and not be alone too much. Are you two still at the boarding house?”
Jesse shook his head. “We actually managed to get Deputy Charles' house, like you suggested.” He frowned. “Right on the outskirts of town. I might ask if she can stay with someone for a while.”
“Maybe with Lydia,” Dylan suggested. “Safety in numbers and all. Plus, she's right in the middle of town.”
“Not to burst anyone's bubble,” Rob cut in, “but remember that Rebecca Spencer's shop is also right in the middle of town, and so is the jail. Both of them got attacked. No one is safe anywhere. Can your women defend themselves?”
“Addie can,” Jesse replied promptly, but volunteered no further information.
I wish I knew the answer to that question. Lydia has been alone for a long time. I assume she can, but I don't know for sure. “I'll go see her and find out.”
“Maybe you should just hurry up and marry her so she doesn't have to sleep alone,” Jesse suggested.
“But if I'm a target, wouldn't that make her more vulnerable?” Dylan asked, “Especially when I patrol at night.” Marrying Lydia now sounds good and foolish at the same time.
“I don't think there's a good solution,” Rob said. “Do what you need to.”
Dylan nodded. “Okay then. Let's get out of here. Talk to our families and friends. There's nothing secret at this point. Share whatever you have to, to make people wary. Safety first. Meet back here at 9am. Jesse, you're on duty until 10 tonight, and then I relieve you. We'll take turns covering the night until the situation is resolved.”
The men all agreed with silent dips of the head. Then Dylan ducked out of the jail and turned left, headed north until he could see the shingle above the café. I need to talk to her. Find out if she's safe alone at night, and what she wants to do.
Fall deepened every day. The leaves on the few, stunted and wind-blasted trees flashed red and orange as they flapped in a chilly breeze. The grass on the prairie beyond the edge of town was growing yellow and brittle, and the sunflowers bowed their heads, weeping seeds as winter drew nearer. Still, after the beastly heat of summer, the wistful dying time felt like a relief. Dylan breathed in the fresh, crisp air and released it. I wonder if Lydia is done cleaning up from lunch yet… if she can take some time out of her day for me. It feels like I need to hold her. Though his body reacted to the thought in the obvious way, his heart also ached for the closeness only their lovemaking could bring. I need my woman. He increased the pace, barely glancing around the quiet street before slipping into the alleyway that led to her back garden gate.
In the hush, the wind whispered in his ear. Thinking of the robber gang, of not knowing where they would next turn up, Dylan realized he had not followed his own advice. His attention focused on getting to Lydia, he'd scarcely noticed the streets around him, and had no idea who had been out, what curtains hung open so people could peer into the street, what shutters closed on secrets. “Some lawman you are,” he muttered, glad no one had seen his single-minded concentration and lack of awareness.
“You've got that right, Mister Brody,” an oily voice spoke into his ear, the sound accompanied by an ominous metallic click.
Lydia finished cleaning up the kitchen. She'd long since sent Esther and Billy home. I wonder if Dylan will come to see me. I'd like that. Though she didn't feel quite as enthusiastic about being bedded as she'd hoped, it hadn't been horrible, and all the kissing and touching and the closeness pleased her. Yes, those were all very nice. I suppose the rest will come in time. A suspicious tingle told her she might, perhaps, be protesting too much.
Gathering up the basin of dishwater, she st
epped out the back door of her kitchen. Despite the growing cold, it hasn't rained much. Better water the plants. I'll need to bring them inside soon, but the back looks so sad without them. The red bricks, which matched the main street of town, had grown dusty and several showed deep cracks. I'll need to do some repairs in the spring, I see… maybe Dylan can help me. She poured the warm, sudsy water on the tomato plant, though it probably wouldn't survive another week and had certainly stopped producing. Keep it alive anyway. It's green still and has a nice, clean smell. She moved through the compact space to her grapevines. They hung thick with clusters of fruit. She plucked one and sampled it, smiling at the tart taste. Another week and they'll be ready for pressing. She sprinkled the water near the roots and moved on along the fence to the gate, which she unlocked, tucking the key back into the pocket of her apron. It clunked as it fell in.
Wondering if any of her nosier neighbors might be looking into the alley, she eased the gate open. Maybe this isn't such a good idea. People see Dylan sneaking into my yard, they'll know what mischief we're up to.
Though she recognized the validity of the thought, it didn't stop her from peeking out, just in case. Her heart and breath stopped as one. A figure in a black coat and hat stood before her, arm outstretched, holding an ugly black shape against the back of Dylan's head. Her beloved seemed frozen, but she could hear his sharp, shallow breaths.
“It had to be you, didn't it,” a familiar voice with an eastern twang hissed into the stillness. The prairie wind caught the words and carried them to Lydia's ears. “You took my son and now you've taken my woman as well. It'll be a pleasure to kill you, Brody.”
Lydia inhaled deeply, forcing her fears deep, deep down so her surface demeanor became calm, her hands steady. Reaching into her pocket, she slowly drew out a tiny wood-handled derringer. The sunlight flashed on the shiny barrel, but her adversary didn't seem to notice. This is one hell of a shot, she acknowledged, and I'm out of practice. Good thing they're so close. Lord, please don't let me miss. She focused her attention solely on the slender, black-coated arm that clutched the black revolver. I was never your woman, Blaylock, she thought as she compressed the trigger.
The roar of the pistol drove Dylan to his knees, whether to dodge or because his legs simply gave out, he wasn't sure. He felt no pain, though the loud concussion had left his ears ringing. The stench of gunpowder and smoke filled his nostrils. Am I numb? It doesn't hurt, but I don't want to die. I haven't had nearly enough time with Lydia, and she's still in danger.
He breathed deeply, regret gnawing at him as he waited for something to happen. Pain. Unconsciousness. The ground beneath his cheek. But nothing happened. He opened one cautious eye, and looked directly into the barrel of a small handgun. A wisp of smoke rose from the muzzle. Behind, framed against the back wall of her house, Lydia stood in the open gate. Dylan blinked and turned to see a black coat flapping as the person wearing it limped quickly between two buildings and disappeared.
He became aware of wetness on the back of his neck and lifted his fingers, then stared at the redness. “Am I shot?”
A sob broke through the ringing in his ears and then a loud clatter. The gun skidded across the bricks lining the alley and came to rest at his knee. Then Lydia hurled herself into his arms.
As Dylan's hearing cleared, his mind remained muddled. “What did you do?”
Lydia shook, sobbing on his shoulder, her two fists clutching his shirt.
He grasped her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her swollen, tear-stained eyes. “Lydia, we're not safe here. Go back inside your house and lock all the doors.” He groped for her derringer and pressed it back into her hand. “Reload this. I'll be back.” He kissed her lips and then lifted her upright, pushing her back through the gate and shutting it. He heard a fumbling clunk as she locked it.
“Stay under cover,” he insisted. “We don't know how many there are or where they might be.”
“All right.” He could barely distinguish words through her sobs and sniffles, but he recognized the acknowledgement. Her boots clicked on the bricks as she made her way towards the house.
She'll be mad when I come back, but she'll be alive. That's the important part. If we're going to be married, she'll have to get used to coming second to the town's safety.
Pulling his gun from its holster, forcing his reaction down, Dylan raced in the direction he'd seen the criminal going. With that limp, he won't be able to get far. By the time he reached the aperture between the Spencer home and their neighbors, the Millers, no movement betrayed a person passing through or hiding. He crept past the large, white home, keeping his eyes glued on the unoccupied house next door. This would be a great hiding place. He dragged his hat off and peeked through the window to see a room filled with furniture covered in sheets. No footprints marred the dust lying thick on the wood floor. I hope the Millers come home soon. This house has been empty too long.
Carefully skirting the structure, he crept onto the porch and checked the door. Locked. And none of the filthy windows had been broken. Seems secure. Now what? He scanned the street. To the right, a few more houses grew wider and wider apart, until, just past the Wests' new home, the town gave way to open prairie. To the right, Lydia's shingle flapped and clattered in the unending Kansas wind. Further south, the hotel's towering height and the church's tall steeple cast shadows over the street. He could barely make out the train station at the far end of town. A few people milled around in the street, hurrying from one building to another, clutching coats and hats against the cold. No one seemed disturbed in the slightest. Dylan grabbed the arm of a man whose upturned collar rendered him anonymous. The head turned to reveal the flat face of Billy Fulton. Thank goodness. “Billy, have you seen any strangers around here?” Dylan asked.
Billy seemed to chew on the question – or maybe his tongue – until Dylan felt like dancing in place. “Yes, suh,” he said at last. “Black coat and hat?”
“Yes, Billy,” Dylan replied, trying to stay calm. He saw him. Thank you, Lord.
“He went that way.” Billy pointed north, toward the edge of town. Dylan scanned the horizon, but saw nothing. I'd better get help.
“Thank you, Billy. That was really important information. Now, can you go look after Miss Lydia? A bad man came far too close to her.”
Billy nodded grimly, seeming to understand the gravity of the situation, and hurried down the street toward the café.
“Well, shoot,” Dylan muttered, turning away from his quarry and returning to the jail to round up Jesse and Rob. “He was too close. Much too close. Who was that guy anyway? He seems familiar, but I can't place him. Of course, in this town that alone should be warning enough. And what on earth was he talking about, stole his woman? I haven't stolen anything.”
“Of course you haven't.”
Dylan started violently, surprised to find himself facing the desk inside the jail building, staring at Jesse's smirking face.
“If you stole something, Sheriff, I'd have to arrest you.”
Dylan lowered his eyebrows. Then he sank into a chair, his knees no longer willing to hold him. “He's here. He got the jump on me. My number was almost up, West.”
Jesse's grin faded. “Who?”
“The boss. He caught up with me outside Lydia's. If she hadn't pulled her derringer, you'd be finding my body come morning.”
“The hell you say? Lydia shot him?” Jesse shot up from the chair.
Dylan dipped his chin. “I think so.” He touched the tacky spot on his neck. “This blood isn't mine. She ran him off. Billy Fulton saw him heading north. Walks with a limp, he said. An old guy like that wouldn't be running robberies.”
“Right. Behind the scenes. A limp, you say? Then maybe he is the same one I met up with in Colorado. He had a limp. Needed help walking, even.”
“Maybe he has an injury?” Dylan speculated. “Maybe it's partially healed?” How the hell would Jesse or anyone know the answer to that? Stop babbling, man.
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“Could be so,” Jesse agreed, scratching the golden stubble on his chin.
“What's to the north?” Dylan asked. “Isn't it just open prairie?”
“Jesse! Jesse!” The door burst open and Rob pounded into the room, waving a scrap of paper in the air. He noticed Dylan and pulled up short. “Sheriff. Sorry.”
“Don't be,” Dylan assured him. He considered standing, but his knees assured him such a move would not be appreciated, or successful, so he turned the chair around. “I was about to send Jesse to look for you. What do you have there?”
“The reply to Jesse's telegram,” Rob replied. Despite being well over six feet, broad-shouldered and muscle-bound, Rob's demeanor revealed his barely twenty years. He's just a kid. He shouldn't be here. Of course, I was no older when I started. Hope I don't have to bury him.
“What does it say?” Jesse demanded, circling the desk and leaning against the far wall, below the tiny, barred window, so the three men formed a triangle. “Read it to us, Rob. Let's hear together.”
The boy raked his fingers through his dark hair and opened the missive. “It's long. Says the sheriff of Pueblo found out who was sending the letters. A widow woman. She'd been keeping company with an older fellow, a stranger who'd taken up residence in the town. He hasn't been seen in weeks. According to the grocer, she'd been receiving letters postmarked from Garden City and sometimes Dodge City for quite some time, and then returning the next day or even later the same day and sending letters addressed to you.”
“So she's just passing the message on?” Dylan surmised. “That fits.” He frowned.
“That's not good,” Jesse added. “Sounds like she's the only one there, which means whoever is left – not to mention whoever they've recruited since then – is somewhere else. Bet your boots they're nearby.”
“I'd agree with the whole operation being nearby. Do they have the name of the older fellow?” Dylan asked.
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